


Sherlollipops - Smooth

by MizJoely



Series: 221 Sherlollipops [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-19
Updated: 2014-02-19
Packaged: 2018-01-13 00:39:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1206409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MizJoely/pseuds/MizJoely
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock told John he prefers his doctors clean shaven. Sherlolly one-shot that asks the question: Did he mean Molly as well? Silly little PWP that unexpectedly got away from me at the end, established Sherlolly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlollipops - Smooth

Sherlock entered the flat, removing his coat, scarf and shoes as usual, leaving them near the door. As he started to head toward the kitchen for a snack – another case successfully concluded, John delivered safely to Mary and baby Alison's sides – a faint noise caught his attention. It appeared to be coming from the direction of his bedroom.

Switching directions, moving silently in his stocking feet, he ghosted down the hall toward his bedroom, stopping only to grab the riding crop sticking out of the umbrella stand. When he reached the door (slightly ajar, when he'd left it entirely open when he left two days previous, Mrs. Hudson might have dusted but she wouldn't have closed the door, would have left it as it she found it unless she was hoovering, no signs of that task having been done in the past week), he stopped and listened, quieting his breathing and straining for any further sounds to clue him in to who the intruder might be...and why they were in his bedroom in the first place.

A slight noise caught his ear, and he eased the door further open as he recognized the sound of a magazine page being flipped. A grin split his features as he lowered his right hand, still gripping the riding crop, easing his grasp on the weapon as he realized who the 'intruder' really was.

He entered the room and silently laid the crop on the dresser, taking in the enticing sight that met his eyes.

Molly Hooper was lying across his bed, left side to him, chin propped on one hand as she flipped through a pathology journal. Her hair was loose, partially obscuring her face as she read. One leg was in the air, toes idly flexing as she read.

To make the picture she presented even more captivating, his pathologist – they'd been together romantically ever since his return from his extremely brief exile from England and subsequent dispatching of a returned-from-the-dead Moriarty – was completely naked.

The sight of her naked body wasn't a surprise; after all, the two of them had been a couple and often engaged in...no, how had Molly put it when she was lying about how well her relationship with what's-his-name had been going on John's stag night? Oh, yes. "Having quite a lot of sex," he murmured aloud, causing Molly to look up from her journal with a faint start of surprise.

"Oh, Sherlock! You're home," she said with a smile, laying the magazine on the bed with no signs of self-consciousness. Good. He enjoyed making her stammer and blush, true, but he much preferred the strong, confident Molly Hooper he'd discovered upon his return from the dead. Yes, it had taken them over a year to find their way to one another – after the end of her engagement to what's-his-name and her anger at him for his temporary return to drug use and all the other unpleasant things he'd done in order to take down Magnussen – but now that they had, he intended never to let anything come between them again. Including his own tendency to put his worst foot forward when it came to the petite pathologist currently lounging on his bed (they'd only been a couple for a month, far too soon to ask her to move in with him, or so John and Mary advised, but he wasn't sure how much longer he wanted to wait).

With all that racing through his mind, he smiled back at her and forbore from pointing out the obviousness of her greeting. "Yes, and so are you, Molly. I wasn't expecting you this afternoon, I thought you said you had to work? But you didn't have to work, you had some work done instead. As a surprise for me, unless I'm very much mistaken."

A faint blush colored Molly's cheeks, but a dimple showed as she looked up at him. "I have no idea what you're talking about," she bluffed.

Sherlock gave a huff of laughter, leaning back against the dresser as he nodded at her raised foot. "Pedicure, including the application of your favorite nail color, Cherry Red," he recited, then turned his attention to her hands. "Fingernails to match after a full manicure...no, you skipped the hot wax treatment,” he corrected himself. “You've also had a massage, a facial, and some sort of body buffing that has suffused your skin with a particularly enticing glow," he concluded, pushing himself off the dresser preparatory to joining her on the bed.

He froze as Molly rolled onto her side, giving Sherlock a clear view of just what other 'work' she'd had done earlier.

oOo

Molly kept her eyes on Sherlock, biting at her lower lip in a nervous gesture as she tried to read his reaction – was it shock, dismay, annoyance? It was impossible to tell with his face unmoving and his eyes focused on her body so she couldn't read them. "John told Mary you said you prefer your doctors clean shaven," she said in a rush as Sherlock continued to stare down at her now-hairless groin. "She gave me this little eyebrow wiggle and well, kind of nudged me and asked if it was true.” Molly tried a tentative grin as Sherlock finally raised his eyes to meet hers. “She, um, loves to tease, doesn't she?"

"As do you, Doctor Hooper," Sherlock replied in a husky voice, finally managing to unstick his feet from the floor, moving swiftly to sit on the bed as he spoke. "As do you."

Molly grinned in relief as the lust flared in Sherlock's eyes. She still wasn't used to this, the two of them, him actually wanting her and admitting to it and – miracle of miracles! – acting on it. Neither had said the 'L' word yet, Molly because Sherlock already knew and had known for a long time now, and Sherlock...well, she'd heard his opinions on sentiment and love in the past, and she was content with things as they currently stood. He might never say the words, but as long as he continued to treat her as well as had since his return from the dead – excluding his little side excursion back into drug use and that horrible fake engagement with Mary's maid of honor during the Magnussen case – then she was willing to allow the status to remain quo, as it were.

And a lovely, lovely status quo it was, she thought as he grazed her hip with his long fingers, bringing a shiver to her body. She reached up and caressed his cheek with her own hand, feeling a bit overwhelmed that she was allowed to touch him like this, that he wanted to touch her in return, and the way he was feasting his eyes on her newly depiliated body – she'd had legs and arms and torso done, not just her pubic mound – made her feel delightfully like Little Red Riding Hood about to be devoured by the wolf. The porno version, of course, not the fairy tale that had always been one of her favorites as a little girl...

“Molly,” Sherlock growled, sending another delightful shiver over her body, raising goosebumps in its wake. “You do realize it's not my birthday, right?” She nodded, another dimple making its appearance as she fought down her excited, nervous giggles. Sherlock's hand crept closer to her core, and Molly obligingly shifted her legs further apart. “Nor Christmas?” He paused, frowning a bit as he caught her gaze. “Oh, God, it's not one of those tedious anniversary things, is it? Anniversary of when we first met or when I first observed you doing an autopsy or anything like that?”

Molly shook her head, amused by the fact that he'd even consider his first observation of her performing an autopsy worthy of noting. “No, it's just, well, I thought, if you really did say that after John shaved off his moustache, well, maybe you meant, you know, you liked _all_ your doctors clean shaven. And yeah, I'm a pathologist and not an MD, but still, I'm a doctor, so...”

She fell silent only because Sherlock swooped down to plant a passionate kiss on her lips, teasing her mouth open with his tongue before invading with an urgency she'd not previously felt from him. Her hands reached up to tangle in his hair – god, she loved his hair, couldn't get enough of the feel of it beneath her fingers – as she was pressed back onto the mattress, Sherlock's right leg between her thigh and the unmistakable sign of his arousal pressing a hard ridge against her denuded core.

She gasped as he slid his hand between their bodies, slipping his fingers deep within her folds and grunting a bit as he lifted himself off her enough for her to undo the button and zip to his trousers. He nipped at her earlobe as she started to remove his clothing, his fingers continuously stroking her, sliding in and out in the way she liked best, his thumb rubbing small circles against her clit, making her gasp and moan and fumble with the buttons to his shirt to the point that he finally batted her hands away, raised himself up on his knees and did it himself.

Molly lay back and stared up at him in frank appreciation, loving the play of muscles across his chest as he shucked the indigo dress shirt, dropping it carelessly to the floor before once again lowering his body on top of hers, giving a satisfied groan as his erection pressed directly on her naked flesh. “God, Molly, you have no idea how good this feels,” he moaned. “I can't wait to taste you this way.”

She gasped out a laugh that quickly turned into an appreciative moan as he suited words to actions, pulling away from her in order to press his mouth against her overheated flesh. He was mumbling something she couldn't quite make out, the vibrations of his lips and tongue against her body seriously disrupting her ability to think straight. And when he set to work, delicately pulling her folds open in order to better reach her with his tongue, thinking definitely fell by the wayside.

oOo

The sensation of Molly's completely hairless pubic mound and labia majora against his mouth and fingers was having a very pleasant effect on his entire nervous system, which seemed to have redirected itself so that every taste, every sensation went directly to his groin and his ever-hardening dick. “You taste different, Molly, so smooth and delightful,” he growled, lifting his head in order to make eye contact. “I can’t wait to feel my dick inside you, to fuck you until you scream my name.”

She gasped and made a small choking sound; concerned, he stopped in the process of lowering his head to look at her, to make sure she was all right, only to find her heated gaze meeting his. “I'm fine, Sherlock, god, please, just...it's all right, don't stop, for God's sake...”

Ah, there was the stuttering, stammering flustered Molly he'd first met. He gave a little smirk before lowering his head back between her (completely hairless, even smoother than normal) legs and circling his tongue around her clit. She responded with a squeak of pleasure, her fingers rubbing against his scalp in that way she had of unconsciously attempting to guide his movements into mimicking her own. He'd never told her she did it, knowing she'd stop if she knew she was, and he absolutely did not want that to happen. He loved the feel of her fingers in his hair, tugging and rubbing and (if he touched her in just the right way with his own fingers and tongue) scratching.

He also loved the feel of her against his tongue and lips; further research would have to be performed, he thought smugly, to determine if he preferred her normal neatly trimmed pubes to her current denuded state. With that in mind, he concentrated on lapping at her folds. The feel of her smooth flesh against his face was doing marvelous things to him, raising his temperature and increasing his heart rate and invading his mind with thoughts about exactly how lovely she would feel when he pressed their groins together.

Those images sped up his movements until suddenly Molly was writhing beneath him, crying out disjointed phrases that sounded like attempts to say his name whilst simultaneously crying out to a deity she believed in but he never had. Her fingers had curled into claws, tangled in his hair, tugging them almost to the point of pain as he tongue-fucked her, his own fingers (when had they moved?) clutching her buttocks hard enough to leave marks in the tender flesh.

She gave an almighty shudder before collapsing bonelessly against the bed. Sherlock left a lingering kiss on her dripping sex, pulled himself upright and gazed down at her with unabashed lust. He loved seeing her like this, completely unraveled, exposed to his view and utterly sated. To see her this way with nothing, not even body hair, to hide her from his view, was even more arousing than usual. He could see her glistening pink folds, still taste her on his tongue and lips, and gave into the overwhelming urge to press himself against her while she recovered from her orgasm.

He'd never kissed her right after going down on her, and wondered if she'd find the taste of herself on his lips disgusting; so many women did, and he could never understand why. Yes, his sexual experience was fairly limited (certainly compared to someone like John 'Three Continents' Watson), but one thing he'd never deleted was how delicious a woman's cunt tasted, especially during and immediately following orgasm.

She turned her face away but he persisted until she gave in with a little giggle, wrinkling her nose at first but then, as he twined his body around hers (and yes, the smooth flesh of her bare cunt felt amazing against his dick) and teased her mouth with his tongue, she seemed to lose her distaste and responded to his insistent kisses with a series of gasping moans that did brilliant things to his nervous system.

“You taste so fucking delicious, I had to share it with you,” he breathed into her ear, giving it a swipe of his tongue and a nip of his teeth before moving down to her neck, her collarbone, her lovely little breasts with their dusky pink nipples. She shuddered and grasped his shoulders and gave another one of those mewling moans he loved so much as he teased her nipples, already hard and pebbled into elongated nubs that felt lovely against his tongue and the roof of his mouth.

He wanted to be inside her, but he wanted to prolong this encounter as well, to make it last as long as humanly possible, but Molly's insistent hands on his body, her encouraging little cries and whimpers and moans quickly brought his more impatient nature to the surface. Delayed gratification was all well and good, but really, what was the point? It wasn't as if she was going to push him off her body when they were finished and ban him from ever touching her again; past experience had already proven, to their mutual satisfaction, that as long as vaginal penetration was alternated with oral stimulation, Molly was capable of experiencing multiple orgasms within a relatively short period of time.

He, himself, he thought with absolutely no modesty whatsoever, had an incredibly rapid recovery period. It was currently four o'clock in the afternoon – ten past, to be accurate – and if Molly planned to spend the night and wasn't on shift until tomorrow afternoon at this time (both of which he'd already deduced else she wouldn't be here in the first place) then they had more than twelve hours to devote to purely erotic pursuits. And possibly some sleep (since Molly required more than he did), as well as sustenance (ditto her need to eat)...

The feeling of Molly's hand firmly grasping his dick brought him abruptly back into the moment. “Sorry,” she said in her sweetest voice as he gasped, refocusing his gaze on her face (oh, he'd stopped tonguing her nipples and had been simply resting his head on her shoulder, no wonder she'd felt the need to take drastic action). She didn't sound sorry and she certainly didn't look sorry, not with that impish grin on her lips and her dimples showing. “You went away for a moment and I thought you needed a friendly reminder of what you're supposed to be doing.”

He tried to speak, couldn't, cleared his throat and tried again, more successfully this time. “Ah, yes, I, um, see your point. Sorry, won't happen again.”

He probably would have continued to babble out apologies if she hadn't pulled him to her for a lingering kiss, her hand still stroking his shaft, which had gone from 'hard' to 'hardest' after completely skipping over 'harder'. She tended to have that effect on him when she asserted herself sexually. Just as he'd started paying more attention to her once she started standing up to him.

One thing was for certain; for a woman he once (foolishly!) dismissed as ordinary, that he'd actually believed he had entirely figured out, she never ceased to surprise him.

Like now. Molly had never been one for dirty talk. Listening to him and going completely insane at the sound of his voice growling filthy phrases into her ears during sex, yes; reciprocating, no.

“Sherlock, for God's sake, if you don't fuck me now and make me come again I swear I will grab that fucking riding crop off the dresser and turn your lily-white arse red!”

He gaped down at her, stunned and titillated and trying not to picture her standing over him in full dominatrix gear, masked and wielding the crop against him as threatened. Just as her lascivious expression began to turn nervous and uncertain (when would Molly understand that she could never, ever do or say anything to turn him away from her, especially during sex?) he crashed his lips against hers, thrusting his tongue into her mouth while simultaneously guiding his prick deep inside her.

“Feels so fucking good,” he groaned as she wrapped her legs around his waist and dug her hands into his shoulders. “God, Molly, you have no idea what you do to me, how much I want you and need you, how much I love you...”

Both of them froze as those last words left his lips; Molly's eyes snapped open and she stared up at him with an expression halfway between hope and terror on her face. 

He was still inside her, still hard and aching for her, and he knew what she was thinking. That the words had simply spilled out of him in a moment of passion, that he didn't mean them.

The thing was, he did. All of them, from first to last, including the one he generally avoided like the plague.

Love.

He loved her. He, Sherlock Holmes, loved Molly Hooper.

And he wanted her to know it. Not only to know it, but to believe it as well.

“I meant it,” he gasped out as he started to move again, her body automatically joining the renewed rhythm even though her expression still read as 'deer in headlights'. “I'll say it when we're not having sex, Molly, and then I want to hear you say it, even though we both already know you do.” He offered a crooked smile as her fingers finally eased their death-grips on his shoulders and her expression softened into something approaching pure joy. “After I'm done fucking your brains out, of course.”

She orgasmed almost as soon as the words left his lips, as he could have predicted had his mind been its usual analytical self instead of the bowl of emotional oatmeal into which it had (temporarily) devolved. Of course, since he wasn't far behind her in reaching his own climax (certainly helped along by the way she moaned “I love you, I love you, Oh, God, Sherlock, I love you!” into his ear over and over again) a certain amount of mental incapacity was only to be expected.

He looked forward to a lifetime of such moments in their shared future.


End file.
